Where Angels Sleep
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: In the end, you're still dead. Heroes and wimps, bad guys and good guys, they all end up in the ground. There isn't glory in death. There's just death, no matter how you look at it.
1. Chapter 1

Where Angels Sleep

Summary: In the end, you're still dead. Heroes and wimps, bad guys and good guys, they all end up in the ground. There isn't glory in death. There's just death, no matter how you look at it.

A/N: This is a (belated) birthday gift for sendintheclowns. Sam's illness is all her fault, so I take no complaints :) Much love and thanks to Gem for beta'ing this despite the, um...somewhat graphic and squicky content. If bodily functions freak you out, be warned they abound in this fic.

A/N: While rereading I found a massive plot hole I left, so I made a very minor addition to make myself feel better.

Disclaimer: Nope--I'm just playing with other people's toys.

* * *

_"It's taken ten thousand days  
To get stuck in my ways  
It offers no grace  
I cannot stand this place  
With love and my faith  
I walk away slowly_

_I don't know where  
The angels sleep"_

-from "Where Angels Sleep" by Bebo Norman

**Where Angels Sleep**

It started out as a cold.

Nothing spectacular and nothing noteworthy. Sam had been congested, coughing and sneezing, and looking generally miserable as he tried to research their latest hunt in the small town of Wimbly, Ohio.

The over-the-counter medications weren't doing much except making him sleepy, and Dean didn't really feel like playing nursemaid. When Sam was injured--that was one thing. But when he was just pathetically ill, it was another. He was a good big brother and he'd done his share of caring for his baby brother, but he wasn't about to wipe his brother's nose for him.

Besides, they had a hunt, and the hunt _always_ came first. No little cold was a reason to postpone the saving of innocent lives.

That mantra was growing thin and tired after everything that had happened in the last few months, but it was all they had, all they had ever had, and it was enough to keep them going.

To Sam's credit, he tried. He forced his way through books and pored over his laptop, even joined Dean for the final showdown, during which Sam averted disaster by a coughing fit that doubled him over just as the spirit tried to run him through with a fire poker.

It was enough time for Dean to vanquish the thing, and it disappeared in an explosion of light and energy. Both brothers hit the floor, until the room was left in eery silence.

Sam coughed a few more times, the tickle erupting again.

Dean pulled himself upright next to his brother.

"Lucky cough there, Sammy," Dean joked, patting Sam on the back.

Sam blinked up at him, inhaling with difficulty. "Are you suggesting that my cold saved my life?"

Dean shrugged. "Whatever. All I know is that getting impaled on a fire poker would be a lame-ass way to die."

Sam just glared, or attempted too, before he was cut off with a vicious sneeze.

OOO

With the hunt over, Dean was itching to get back on the road. Staying in one spot made it too easy to think, and ever since their dad had died, Dean had not been overly fond of thinking.

Sam, however, seemed to want to do nothing more than sleep.

And sleep some more.

He'd crashed hard after the hunt, and Dean had barely been able to pull his brother out of bed for a full day. Dean was going a little stir crazy with it--with nothing on TV and no place to go, he'd cleaned his guns, sharpened his knives, and done all the laundry--even Sam's--before he plopped down hard on the bed in acknowledgement of his utter boredom.

Sam wasn't even sick enough to nurse, or he might have taken to that role, just for something to do. Sam was pale and greasy, but coherent and capable of walking when he needed to. Dean fed him cold pills every six hours, made sure he had plenty to drink, and continued to go crazy with nothing else to occupy his time.

Breakfast had been doughnuts from a gas station and lunch had been chips from a vending machine. Now it was dinner time and Dean needed out.

Besides, he told himself, Sam needed to eat, keep his strength up, or he'd never beat this cold.

With his brother's well-being (and his own restlessness) in mind, Dean gathered his jacket and his keys. Sam was curled up in the sheets, half-watching the television from his bedridden vantage point.

"You hungry?"

Sam looked up at him, pure misery written in his face.

A sarcastic quip languished in the back of Dean's throat and he opted for compassion instead. "You should really eat something."

"Dean," Sam croaked. "I don't think I can move."

Dean sighed. They could order in, but that would mean more time cramped in this motel room. No, he needed to get out. But Sam was in no position to be in public. "Why don't I pick something up for you?"

It was hard to tell, but Sam's eyes seemed to brighten. "Really?"

Sam's hope solidified his decision and he grinned broadly. "Sure."

"Some salad, maybe? Soup?"

"Dude, beggars can't be choosers. I'll see what's available."

Normally, Sam would probably protest, push the issue some. But he was tired and weak and Dean saw him give in without any reluctance. "I'll be back in a few. Try not to cough up a lung or anything while I'm gone."

OOO

Beggars or choosers, there were only two eating places open in town. One was the diner they'd eaten every meal at. It was typical for a small town, but a little greasier than Dean cared for and far pricier than it should have been. Between the two of them in their week stay there, they'd probably tried everything on the menu and found little worth eating.

The other place was a dinky fast food joint, some local chain, that hardly looked sturdy enough to still be open. But the parking lot was two-thirds full and, when he went inside, he found it buzzing with local teens and young families.

The line wound around a metal railing, and children scurried in and out. Tentatively, he took his place in line, perusing the menu.

He found burgers, chicken sandwiches, shakes, and more burgers. Double burgers, triple burgers.

Suddenly he found himself at the front of the line and a teenaged kid was staring at him expectantly. "Can I take your order?"

The kid sounded somewhere between bored and dumb, Dean couldn't decide which.

"Yeah, I'll take a spicy chicken special."

"Do you want fries with that?"

Dean looked at the menu, then at the kid. "Doesn't the special come with fries?"

The kid looked blank, then looked at the menu, too. He laughed. "My bad," he snorted, pushing a button. "Anything else?"

"Do you guys have...like...a salad?" Dean asked, eyes still studying the menu.

The kid snapped his gum. "Nope. Some of our sandwiches come with lettuce, though. Even a tomato when we're not out."

"So no Caesar salad or anything?"

The kid stared. "We're a burger joint, dude."

Dean stared back. "Right."

"You don't want a burger?" the kid sounded genuinely confused, maybe hurt.

"My brother was just kind of wanting a salad."

"We're known for our burgers."

"Fine," Dean said with a sigh. "Give me a double burger special."

The kid's face brightened. "Great, that'll be 8.34," he said.

Dean could barely muster a smile as he handed a ten to the kid and waited for his change. When the order was ready, the kid handed it to him, leaning over the counter secretively. "Trust me," the kid said with a knowing nod and a broad smile, "the burgers are the _best_."

OOO

When he returned to the motel room, Sam was curled up under the covers, his eyes peeking out to watch the TV. When he heard Dean's presence, he shifted, pushing himself up gingerly.

His hair was mussed and lay strewn about his head randomly. He blinked wearily up at Dean. "Did you get a salad?"

Sam sounded so congested that Dean felt apologetic when he answered. "Sorry. Just a burger."

Sam stared. "A burger?"

Dean pulled it out of the bag and held it out. "It's got lettuce on it."

Disbelieving, Sam stared on. "You're unbelievable," he said finally, reaching a hand out to take the wrapped sandwich. "I've got a cold and you're feeding me grease."

"Hey," Dean said with a shrug, settling on his own bed. "It's better than letting you starve to death."

Dean didn't even look up for Sam's death glare.

OOO

As much as Sam bemoaned Dean's choice in food, it seemed to be the nourishment he needed. Within a few days, he was more or less recovered, and the brothers were on the road again. Sam was still somewhat congested but his cough was less rattling than before, and he was thoroughly engaged in the background for a series of peculiar deaths in Wisconsin.

"This doesn't make any sense," Sam said, staring at his notepad. "Five deaths, all at Lake Evans. One drowning, one self-inflicted gunshot wound, one drug overdose, one burned alive, and one animal mauling. The people didn't have any connections to one another. They all just died up at Lake Evans. Different ways."

"Maybe they're not connected then? Maybe we're looking for a pattern when really it's coincidence?"

Sam shook his head. "Five deaths, all within the same two-mile radius. Lake Evans is huge--and full of vacation spots. Not to mention, they all died at the same time of day--or night, actually," Sam explained, plopping the collected evidence in front of Dean. "It's too specific to be chance. But the different modes of death are keeping the police from drawing any conclusions."

Dean perused the papers. "But one of these was a suicide--how does that fit in?"

"Ghosts have been known to make people kill themselves."

"Usually as an MO. These deaths--drowning, fire, overdose, suicide, mauling--they're so different. What kind of Casper is that inventive?"

"No, they usually find a ritual, a routine--we just assume that the method of murder is part of that," Sam said. "But in this case, the routine could be anything--including details of the spirit's interaction with the victim before the death that just ends in a different style of murder."

Slightly disturbed, Dean snorted. "You think a little too much like a deranged spirit sometimes."

Rolling his eyes, Sam sighed. "Maybe the point isn't how they die; it's when and where they die. Either way, five people are dead and there's probably a spirit behind it and it's our job to do something about it."

"Okay, okay," Dean conceded. "We'll check it out in the AM."

OOO

Dean was used to Sam's eccentric behavior.

The way he liked to mix his mashed potatoes with everything. The way he jiggled his knee when he was bored. The way he woke up at ungodly hours to do who knows what.

So waking up to find Sam absent in the morning wasn't uncommon. Sometimes, he found Sam in the chair with the laptop. Sometimes, Sam was reading. Sometimes, Sam was out getting coffee. Sometimes, he was in the bathroom.

Therefore, there really wasn't anything amiss when he awoke to find Sam's bed rumpled and empty and the bathroom door closed. He decided to turn on the TV and wait.

He flipped between a game show and a talk show and waited.

The talk show broke into a heated fight between an ex-girlfriend and the sister. Dean was so intrigued that he forgot he was waiting.

At commercial, he checked the clock and realized how long he'd been waiting without a sound from the bathroom.

He hit the mute button and listened. "Sammy?"

Nothing.

He stood, moving toward the door.

"Sam, what are you doing in there?"

A beat passed. "Nothing," came the muffled replied.

"Nothing? You've been in there for over fifteen minutes. Did you fall in?"

"Shut up."

Dean glanced at his watch. "We have places to go, people to see," he said. "And I'd prefer being clean when we do it."

"Just give me five minutes." Sam's voice sounded terse and pained.

"Five minutes," Dean agreed. "Then we have to get moving."

OOO

As promised, five minutes later, a slightly disheveled Sam emerged from the bathroom, sliding awkwardly by his brother. Dean eyed Sam, but said nothing, and left his brother to finish getting ready while he showered. A short time later, the two departed for the library in silence.

The shelves of books seemed to do something to ease Sam's foul mood, and soon he was fully immersed in research.

Dean, for his part, could have been more interested if he'd made the effort, but Sam was so thoroughly engaged and just looked so content in his full-on geekishness that Dean didn't see the need to infringe in Sam's territory. Besides, if he leaned back just right, he could catch a glance at the librarian in the next row shelving hard bound copies on the top shelf.

He caught her eye and she did a double take, and Dean bolstered his grin, and she blushed into her task. He was about to waggle an eyebrow when Sam's voice distracted him.

"Hey, I think I found something."

Sam's timing was impeccable. Dean leaned back toward his brother with a huff of annoyance. "What?"

If Sam noticed, he didn't show it. His excitement was palpable. "So, check this out. 1933. Dr. Ronald Brammer, local physician, is found murdered out at Lake Evans. It says here that Brammer ran a hospice center of sorts--often dealing with terminal patients. People came to him from miles around."

"Well, that sounds lovely," Dean said, fiddling with his sleeve. "Who killed him?"

"They found a patient out at the lake with him. The guy was incoherent, though, and never recovered enough to even be questioned seriously about it."

"So we're thinking the good doctor is back, trying to make his killer known?"

Sam shrugged. "Seems plausible."

Dean considered, nodding slowly. "Seems worth checking out. Where can we follow up?"

"Says here his assistant was Gladys Devries. She handled transferring his files after he died. We could see if she's still alive."

A smile slid over Dean's face as he reclined back in the chair. "Sounds like a plan."

"Could you put these away? I just want to go to the bathroom before we go."

"The bathroom?" Dean asked. "Really? Didn't you spend enough time in there this morning?"

"Dean, please?" Sam asked, already backing up toward the door.

"You seemed to have developed quite a small bladder," Dean quipped.

"It's not my bladder," Sam added over his shoulder.

Dean scrunched up his nose in disgust. "That was way more information than I needed," he muttered.

OOO

Gladys Devries lived in a rundown bungalow home in the southwestern end of town. From the outside, it clearly had been a quaint house once, but the siding was old and drab with weather, and the plants had grown beyond their prime. There was an odd collection of garden gnomes and fake deer strewn in the rockbed that surrounded the porch, and the steps did more than their share of creaking as the boys climbed them.

Dean rang the bell and a cat scurried between their feet, mewing in agitation. The brothers exchanged glances as the door opened.

Another cat flitted out before the screen was all the way open. And in the entryway stood a little old woman, no taller than five feet, standing in a faded blue dress that fell just below her knees. Her stalkings sagged into a pathetic pair of penny loafers. She stared up at them through wire glasses and in her skinny arms, she held another purring cat.

"Gladys Devries?" Dean asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

"Yes?" she replied in a scratchy voice.

"We're students over at Gingham Community College. I'm Dean and this is Sam," Dean explained with a smile. "We were hoping to ask you a few questions."

"Questions? What for?" she asked.

"We're history majors and we're doing a paper on local historical figures. We were hoping to talk to you about Ronald Brammer."

"Students, huh?" she said, giving them a thorough once over. "Well, come on in then."

She pushed the door open for them, and the slid inside. The living room was mint green, floor boards to crown moulding. The plaster was cracking and flaking in spots, and the shag green carpet was worn and tattered.

The room seemed to strive to look like a parlor, with classically designed furniture in floral prints. There were rickety wooden shelves adorned with slightly browned doilies, all bedecked with cat figurines of various sizes.

Two more cats trawled the floor, mewing uncertainly at the unusual company. Gladys Devries ambled to a chair and sat down, stroking the cat in her arms as she did so. "Sit, sit, please," she said, waving her free hand wildly in a gesture of invitation.

Both boys perched on the edge of the couch, shifting slightly as they tried to familiarize themselves with their surroundings.

"So what brings you two here again?"

"We were just wondering if you could tell us about Ronald Brammer," Sam said finally with a cordial smile. "We were told you used to work for him."

"Dr. Brammer? Why, he was a bleeding heart if I ever saw one," the old woman crooned, a small smile coming to her face.

Sam smiled reflexively, leaning closer in empathetic listening. "In what way?"

The cat in her arms twittered against her hold but she did not relinquish it. "He never could leave someone in need out there. Always taking in strays--animals, people, it didn't matter. Children, adults, anyone who needed it."

"A real humanitarian, huh?" Dean chimed in, ignoring the cat that beseeched his attention by rubbing against his leg. "Never hurt anyone."

A shadow flickered across the woman's aged features. "He always had the best intentions."

The brothers caught her hesitation and exchanged a glance. Sam wet his lips and looked back up at her. "What do you mean?"

"Everything he did, he did for the betterment of the people who needed him."

"What kind of things did he do?"

"You know, the typical things. Doctors in those days were far more responsible for patients than the ones nowadays. Lots of house calls. Far less worry about billing procedures. If someone needed medicine, it didn't matter how, Dr. Brammer always got it for them."

She paused, and Sam and Dean shifted closer, waiting for her to continue.

"That was just his way. We wanted what was best for people," she explained, fingers absently stroking the cat's head. She shook her head. "Didn't make him very popular to some."

"And why's that?" Dean asked.

"For his attitude to the depressed."

"The depressed?"

She sighed, as if they should understand. "He just didn't believe people should have to live if they didn't want to. He knew there were better things for them, things they couldn't find her. Some of them were hurting, some were dying, some were just..too sad for this world." Her voice trailed off.

Sam licked his lips, hesitantly. "What did he do for them? Counsel them?"

She looked up suddenly, gripping her handkerchief. "He always tried that first, of course. But it didn't always work. Some people--they were just too far gone. So he just eased their burden."

"Eased their burden?" Dean searched for clarification to the growing pit in his stomach.

Her eyes went downward and her face grew solemn.

Dean glanced at Sam. Their eyes locked. Her silence was all the confirmation they needed.

"I never had any part of that, though," she added. "I just did paper work on it. Heard things. You know."

Nodding awkwardly, Dean hedged. "Did he leave anything behind? Files, papers, that kind of thing?"

"For awhile it stayed in the office when Dr. Lawson took over. But a fire took it all out a few years later."

"Any family still around?"

She tickled the cat's ears. "No. He never married and was an only child. Everything was auctioned off."

Dean feigned interested and motioned at Sam. They would get no more from her. "Well, I think we have what we need."

Her smile returned with warmth. "Just call me if you think of anything."

They offered hollow but cordial smiles as Dean prepped to go.

Sam shifted uncomfortably, wincing as he did. "Do you think I could, uh, use the bathroom?"

"Sure, sonny," she said, raising a bony finger. "First door on the left."

Dean cast a curious and annoyed glance at Sam as he slunk out of view. Then, awkwardly, he turned back to the old lady, a smile plastered on his face.

She smiled back at him, her thin lips revealing her yellowing teeth. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

OOO

The bathroom was small and pink. Very pink.

Pink tiles. Pink vanity. Pink toilet.

Then, to top it off, Mrs. Devries accented with pink washcloths, towels, even pink, rose-shaped soap.

If Sam hadn't already been nauseous, he would have certainly become so by stepping in there.

As it was, he barely took the time to lock the door before undoing his belt and sitting readily on the (pink) toilet seat.

Just in time.

His stomach was clenching wildly and he could not help but leaning his head in relief against the pink patterned wallpaper that adorned the walls.

It was the ugliest bathroom he'd ever seen, and he'd seen a lot of ugly bathrooms.

But, at that moment, it was the best place Sam had ever been.

OOO

Dean was running out of things to talk about. He now knew about her preference for bridge, her quilting club, and how hard it was to keep up with now that arthritis had set in. He knew that sugar was outrageously priced and that TV had become a conduit of the devil.

Also, she had seven cats, three boys and four girls. Named after her favorite biblical characters--Gideon, Haggai, Moses, Leah, Esther, Eve and Rosie. And, no, Rosie wasn't biblical, but it sure sounded nice.

He was more than a little relieved when Sam finally reappeared from the bathroom, and was so hasty in getting them out the door that he didn't notice Sam's disposition until they were out on the yard.

Sam looked terrible. Dean wondered how he hadn't noticed it until now. Before he had figured it was just the lingering effects of his cold--it hadn't been a week since Sam had been in the thick of it, and his brother still would be caught in a fit of coughing from time to time.

But, no, it was something else. Sam was unnaturally pale and drawn, walking guardedly as he followed Dean out. "What's up with you? You spent like fifteen minutes in there. I was dying out here."

Sam looked up at him through his fringe of bangs. "Sorry."

"Sorry? I was like two minutes away from having to crochet with her. What's wrong?"

"Well, let's just say that if things don't improve, I'll be wishing for my own Dr. Brammer to put me out of my misery."

Dean snorted and began down the walkway. "Just head down to Lake Evans and I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige."

"So you think he's continuing his life's work even in death?"

"Seems like it," Dean replied easily. "I figure the good doctor is haunting the lake, finding unsuspecting souls and reaching into their minds to pick the method of death. Eased their burden, as our good friend Gladys would say."

Sam considered. "So their greatest fear, a fantasy--something prominent. And he then finishes them off that way for their own good. Makes sense."

"Makes sense?" Dean asked incredulously. "Hardly. I mean, what kind of freak does that? Kills people for their own good? I mean, who says he gets to decide?"

Sam followed him, his gait somewhat more careful. "How do we decide? We all make judgments, Dean."

"We base it on something more than a feeling."

"I'm sure he did, too."

Dean stopped and looked hard at his brother. "What's up with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're _defending _this guy?"

"I'm not defending him."

"Then what the hell do you think you're doing? Comparing us to him? We're _nothing _like that," Dean said.

"I never said we were," Sam tried to explain. "But sometimes, if there's enough pain and desolation, I don't know, maybe death is better in that case."

Dean waited for Sam to continue, trying to gauge how serious Sam was. "You a bit suicidal there, Sammy?" he asked, sounding light, but real concern lacing his voice.

Sam smiled wearily and rubbed a hand over his face. "No," he said. "I'm just saying that maybe I understand the appeal."

"Doesn't make it right. Death shouldn't be something we give into it. We need to fight it and go down right. That's where that guy's wrong."

"I'm not saying he did the right thing."

"Then what are you saying?"

Sam sighed, his frustration enhanced by his weariness. "Dead is dead, Dean," Sam said. "There's nothing glamorous about any of it."

"Some ways are more worth it."

"In the end, you're still dead. Heroes and wimps, bad guys and good guys, they all end up in the ground. There isn't glory in death. There's just death, no matter how you look at it."

"That's pretty bleak coming from you," Dean commented.

"You're missing the point. It's not about our deaths, it's about our lives. Sometimes we just have to trust ourselves to know what we're doing is right."

There was a moment of silence. "That's beautiful, Sammy." Dean choked up in jest. "Really beautiful."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Let's just go back to the motel."

Dean swatted the back of Sam's head, and moved toward the car, Sam following right behind.

OOO

It was only a ten minute drive to the motel, but it was the longest ten minutes of Sam's life. No matter how he sat, the growing need to use the bathroom was overpowering him. He shifted uncomfortably as they paused at a red light, glancing nervously at Dean as he tried to hide his discomfort.

Dean seemed to drive at an unnaturally leisurely pace, and Sam thought he was going to be sick. Why on earth did Dean pick _today_ to obey the rules of the road?

"You okay, man?" Dean asked.

Sam kept his eyes ahead, swallowing grimly. "Just drive, Dean," he ordered, in a low and dangerous voice.

Dean just raised his eyebrows and drove on.

Over a pothole. Full on.

The car jarred painfully.

Sam glared.

Dean snickered. "Sorry."

OOO

Sam got back at his brother by thoroughly monopolizing the bathroom. By the time Sam was done, Dean didn't want it anymore anyway.

But there was little glory to his victory. Truthfully, Sam felt even worse than before. His stomach rarely felt at rest and the churning in his intestines seemed to be intensifying by the second. Whatever he'd eaten, it sure had done a number on him, and he was desperately hoping for reprieve.

Dean tried to cajole him into going out for dinner, but the plaintively deadly glare Sam leveled at him convinced him to leave his brother for a short dinner run of his own. It wasn't like Sammy would keep anything in his system for long anyway.

By the time Dean came back, Sam was seated, back against the headboard, knees drawn to his chest and head down.

Dean studied him, waited and watched. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam said shortly, not even looking up.

There was a hint of pain in Sam's voice and more than a little exhaustion. "You don't look fine."

Still, Sam didn't move. "Just something I ate," Sam added in a monotone voice.

"You sure?"

Sam slowly raised his eyes, leveling his brother with an iron stare. "Do you want to sort through the contents of my intestines to find out or let me suffer in peace?"

Dean opted for peace.

OOO

But peace was harder to find even without Dean nagging Sam. Sam's illness was pervasive, and seemed to permeate all they did. The night dwindled by the dim light of the television, but Dean muted it so Sam could sleep.

But Sam didn't sleep, and neither did Dean.

Sure, his brother tried to be discreet, but the hourly trips to the bathroom made that kind of impossible. Though the low pitched keening was maybe a little much.

But Sam looked so utterly spent that Dean couldn't really complain or even tease, the way he normally would have. He just lay quietly in the opposite bed, tense and waiting for any sign that Sam needed his help.

OOO

Sleep came to him sometime in the early hours of the morning. He vaguely heard Sam trudge back and forth in a ceaseless path to the bathroom, but he did not rouse fully from sleep.

A familiar rustle from the other bed told him Sam was up for another round. He cracked his eyes open. 3:21.

He sighed and closed his eyes. At this rate, they would never finish this hunt. Sam would be worthless to him tomorrow, not that he would be feeling overly chipper himself.

OOO

He awoke with a jerk.

4:11.

He glanced at the next bed. Sam wasn't there.

That was weird. He always heard Sam coming and going from the bed. He'd heard him go, but not come back.

He tried to ignore his nerves.

Tentatively, he swung his legs out of the bed. Standing, he began his way cautiously through the dark to the bathroom.

He could see the light peeking from beneath the door. He paused and listened.

Nothing.

"Sam?"

He respected Sam's privacy nine times of ten, only invading it when a joke seemed to perfect or when his concern was too high.

Given Sam's ailment, he knew that his brother likely would want more privacy; however, his concern was skyrocketing beyond what Dean was comfortable controlling.

"Sammy?"

He nudged the door opened, peering in cautiously, and his heart skipped a beat.

Sam was heaped, half-naked on the floor. His limbs were tangled amongst each other and throughout the nooks of the small room. The beige floor was stained with red and Dean didn't even want to think about that.

"Sammy," he called again, more desperate this time, trying to maneuver his way in. His movements were frantic, laced with a worry he had no words for.

He shook Sam's shoulder gently, hoping to elicit some response. Sam's limbs merely jostled with the movement, and Dean's fear deepened.

Where was the injury? Dean's fingers probed quickly at Sam's head, his arms, his back, looking for the source.

Then he realized what it was. Sam, in his unconsciousness, had soiled himself, and it wasn't just feces that had come out.

If Dean hadn't been so freaked out, he would have been grossed out, but there was no time for petty disgust, not now, not with Sam laying unconscious in his own excrement and blood on the bathroom floor.

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

Where Angels Sleep

Summary: In the end, you're still dead. Heroes and wimps, bad guys and good guys, they all end up in the ground. There isn't glory in death. There's just death, no matter how you look at it.

A/N: Well, I hope you all survive the squick; this chapter shouldn't be as bad. I made minor additions to part one due to a plot oversight that was driving me insane, but as it is, here's the second (and final) part of Sam's adventures with bodily functions. Happy birthday again to sendintheclowns, and thanks to geminigrl11 for the beta and support.

Disclaimer: Nope--I'm just playing with other people's toys.

* * *

PART TWO

Dean arrived at the hospital with the paramedics in a whirlwind of activity.

The ride had been awkwardly quiet, the medic silently working, and Sam beginning to twitch on the gurney. When they were five minutes out, Sam had become more active, nearly violent in his movements, so much so that the medic had fastened Sam to the backboard in order to keep Sam from hurting himself.

Dean didn't even look at the hospital as Sam was rolled into it. His focus was kept solely on his brother, who was moaning now, and mumbling. Dean caught snippets of supernatural myth and weapon maintenance slip from his brother's incoherent mouth.

In the background, he began to make sense of the medical babble. "23-year-old male, brother found him on the bathroom floor--he'd been sick--vomiting and diarrhea. He's been altered since we arrived."

They were in a room now and Sam was being lifted and moved, and Dean was being pushed gently out of the way.

"He's combative," one doctor said. "Let's get him something to calm him down so we can help him."

Dean watched, too sick to move, while people worked. Sam thrashed as their hands pulled on him, holding him down. A frustrated mewl escaped from Sam's mouth.

"Is your brother on any medications?" another asked, glancing up at him.

"No."

"Does he take anything else? Any kind of drugs?" Her voice was rushed, to the point.

"No," Dean snapped.

The doctor seemed unfazed. "Are you sure?"

"Completely. Sammy's clean." Sam's bucking had slowed and he was merely moving weakly on the table. Dean ached for him.

"What about illness? Has he been sick?"

Dean's mind could barely keep up. "He had a cold. But he was getting over it. He said it was something he ate."

The doctor nodded distantly, mostly forgetting about Dean and focusing her attention on Sam.

"What's wrong with him?" Dean asked, edging cautiously forward.

Sam was still now, eyes closed and shirt cut away. He looked far too exposed and vulnerable for Dean's liking.

"His red blood cell count is low--platelets, too."

Dean strained, trying to see what they were doing, but all he saw were latex gloves and tubes and movement.

"His potassium is way too high."

"What does that mean?" Dean asked, his restlessness overtaking him. He moved forward, tried to get their attention. "What's wrong with him?"

"Will someone please show him to the waiting room?"

Dean didn't remember moving, didn't hear the voice of the nurse talking to him, just remembered standing behind the doors swinging in his face, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.

OOO

Sam was pretty used to not knowing where he was when he woke up, but before he even opened his eyes, he knew this didn't seem right.

It was too cold, and it smelled funny, like disinfectant. A little too sterile for motel rooms. Most didn't keep things _that_ clean.

No, this was brighter too, too bright, he realized as he tried to open his eyes.

"I think he's coming to."

As he blinked his eyes open, he realized they were talking about him.

Opening his eyes brought his situation into acute clarity. He felt sick. Not just a little under the weather, but truly ill. He ached and his stomach felt swollen and turned. He felt something churn and realized with a distant horror that he may very well be messing himself.

"Sam?"

A shiver traveled through his body.

"Sam, can you hear me?"

Where was Dean?

"Sam."

His eyes finally focused on the source of the voice. A doctor, he guessed by the scrubs and stethoscope. Which would make this a hospital, he concluded.

A hospital, and he was on a gurney, IV in his hand, surrounded by medical personnel. What happened?

"Sam." Someone was probing his stomach.

He groaned. That hurt. Why was he here?

Brammer? But they hadn't even gotten to the bones yet.

"Sam, can you hear me?" More hands. Lots of hands. All over him. Everywhere. "Can you tell me where you are?"

He remembered he needed to speak for them to hear him. "Dean..."

"What?"

"Where's Dean?" he asked, trying to push their hands away.

"Your brother is in the waiting room," a soft voice told him, but he couldn't see who said it.

"I need to see him," he insisted, struggling harder now.

"Easy," the voice cooed again, and there was a hand on his forehead. He followed the long arm up to the face of a nurse. She had a motherly smile. "You need to relax."

Sam's eyes flicked to the movement around him. "What are you doing?"

"You're very sick, Sam," she explained. "We're helping you, but we need to protect your airway. We're going to give you something to relax you and when you wake up, you'll have a tube in your throat."

Sam shook his head and he realized he was having trouble breathing. He heaved desperately for air while trying to squirm away from the hands. "I've got to...to find Dean." Dean would know what to do.

"Shh," she shushed him. "We'll find him for you. But for now, just breathe nice and slow."

He wanted to fight, wanted to protest, but something warm was spreading throughout his body and he felt himself growing heavy and weary.

He was being laid back, flat against the table, hands pushing him down, holding him there. He was stronger than this, he knew he was, why couldn't he break free?

His vision swam and his eyelids drooped as the tension left his body. The world buzzed and Sam knew he was fading.

"He's out," someone said, and it sounded so far away that Sam wondered if he dreamed it.

There was a hand on his chin, tilting his head back. Something cold opened his mouth, touched his tongue. He wanted to gag but couldn't, couldn't do anything as pressure slide into his throat and he knew no more.

OOO

Dean was chewing his nails. He had already worked his way through his right hand and was now thoroughly engaged on his left thumb. It wasn't a habit he often succumbed to, but he needed something to keep him occupied. He'd shuffled through his contact list on his cell phone, wishing there was something he could call, but coming up with nothing, and had started in on his hands shortly after that.

Because he had to do something--anything--to keep himself from sitting there, feeling useless.

Chewing his nails didn't really help though, and he'd peeled his right pinky so low it bled.

He didn't feel it though. He was disconnected.

When the doctor finally found him, she seemed to be talking to him through a tunnel. He saw her, heard her, but it didn't quite register.

He blinked and focused, standing on unsteady legs. She was blonde and looked sympathetic.

"I'm Dr. Pottebaum. I've been treating your brother."

Dean forcibly directed his scattered wits to her. This was important. "How is he?"

"Well, we've managed to stabilize him somewhat. But, I think maybe you should sit down," she suggested.

Dean didn't move. "What's wrong with my brother?"

She smiled a little and seemed to sigh. "Your brother is in acute renal failure. We'd like your consent to put him on dialysis."

Dean stared, his mouth hanging slightly open. "Renal failure? How?"

The doctor paused, considering her words. "It's really hard to say for sure until we run more tests. We're hoping that the dialysis will clean out his kidneys and that they'll rebound. If they don't, then we're looking at full on kidney failure which would then likely lead to multiple organ failure and possibly death."

Dean could do nothing but gape. The doctor had to be kidding. "He had a stomach ache. Some diarrhea. How does that lead to death?"

"Has Sam eaten anything unusual lately?"

The question distracted Dean. "What? How does this have to do with getting Sam better?"

"We believe Sam's condition may be from something he's ingested."

"Like food poisoning?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "Not exactly. From the symptoms you've describe and the shutting down of his kidneys, I would guess he's suffering from an e coli infection."

"E coli? How does that cause his kidneys to fail?"

"Sometimes the bacteria just takes a more aggressive course," she explained softly. "There's no way to say."

Her tone was comforting, but her words provided no security. "So what do we do?"

"We've already taken a stool sample, but if his symptoms have persisted for over two days, it may not show anything," she explained. "We hope the dialysis will keep his kidneys functioning. But beyond that, there's not much we can do except wait and see."

"Wait and see? Wait and see? What kind of treatment is that?"

"I understand your frustrations, but there is no evidence that antibiotics have any effect. We'll provide him with anti-diarrheal medicine to try to contain his bowel movements, and we'll keep him hydrated. We intubated him in order to keep his O2 levels up--his blood gas reading was a bit off, so it's mostly a precautionary measure. But the time Sam has gone without treatment means his kidney failure is advanced, almost to the point of involving his lungs. We're going to monitor that very closely. We've arranged to have him transported up to the ICU where they'll continue to monitor his condition."

Dean had no words. No questions. Nothing. He felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.

Dr. Pottebaum smiled slightly and rested a hand on Dean's arm. "Let us get him moved, and then we'll take you to see him. He's sedated for now, but he should be waking within the hour."

She patted his arm once more, offered one last smile, before standing and moving down the hallway.

Dean's was a desolate hope, but hope nonetheless. He needed to be with his brother. He needed to be there. He'd been there for every trial in Sam's life since he was an infant and Sam had always prevailed. Even if it was being there, he had to help his brother.

OOO

Seeing Sam was supposed to make him feel better--he had thought that sitting alone in a waiting room, not knowing was the pinnacle of helplessness.

But sitting by Sam's bedside, the dialysis machine whirring nearby, and Sam hooked up to a ventilator--well, that was probably worse. Because now he knew exactly what was wrong with Sam and there wasn't a thing he could do to change it. Sam had a tube down his throat, his kidneys were failing, and none of it mattered because Dean was powerless to control it.

"Sammy," he breathed, afraid too get too close. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

Sam was silent, unmoving.

Dean laughed uncomfortably, looking at his hands. "You have to wake up."

It was a stupid thing to say, pointless and meaningless, but it was all he had.

Nothing answered him. No reassurance, no hope. Just the emptiness of the hospital.

And in the beeps and hissing, the comings and goings of nurses and doctors, Sam said nothing, did nothing, and all Dean could hear was the growing sound of his failure.

OOO

He was dirty and tired, but he didn't really see leaving as an option. The staff was merely happy when they got him to eat; that trying to convince him to leave was a battle they stopped bothering with shortly after Sam had been admitted.

That had been nearly a day ago, and Sam had done nothing but get worse. His kidneys were still borderline even with the dialysis, and his lungs were showing more signs of being compromised.

Dean was too afraid to leave, too afraid that if he did, Sam would die and he wouldn't be there to stop him. Sam was _his_. Their father gave control of Sam's life to him years ago. And now, he might be responsible for Sam's death as well.

It was his responsibility. His choice. Not some demon's, not some spirits, and certainly not some burger's.

He was familiar to the staff now, and the doctor's treated him with cautious benevolence. It wasn't uncommon to strike up awkward small talk, so when Dr. Pottebaum pulled up a chair next to Dean at Sam's bedside, he wasn't too surprised.

"You said you two were road tripping?" the doctor asked, her voice hedging.

"Yeah," Dean replied slowly with veiled suspicion. "Why?"

"I don't suppose you were traveling through Ohio," she mused.

"And what if we were?"

"There's been several reported cases of e coli, just like Sam's. All of them ate at the same small town fast food joint in Wimbly, Ohio." She held out a newspaper.

Dean took it, feeling numb. His eyes read without his brain working. The name of the town, the name of the restaurant, the symptoms--

"Three people have died," the doctor said. "Six others are ill. Have you been there?"

Dean's blank stare was answer enough.

"I'm very sorry," she said.

To Dean, though, there was no words, just the growing doubt that this was something that he couldn't control.

OOO

Dean wasn't so naive as to believe that he had any sway with the universe. If there was any greater being out there, Dean figured he probably didn't have much standing with Him, no matter what Layla or a misguided faith healer in Nebraska told him.

Sure, he fought evil, and maybe in some way he was a good guy, the kind that didn't kick puppies or laugh at little old ladies falling down. He even was known to be compassionate when the situation arose, and children even seemed to be drawn to him.

But he drank and swore and he killed--yes, he killed a lot, and he killed with relish, and he took pleasure in the gory glory of his job. His destiny. It wasn't divine. It was just reality, one that had been thrust upon him when he was four years old and that he hadn't really been able to fight since.

He didn't have that inherent goodness like Sam did, which he supposed meant he didn't have that lingering fear of darkness like Sam did. Dean existed in gray, though he saw the world in black and white.

So, in the grander scheme of things, he was just a man, and no matter how much he killed or fought or demanded, the universe did not comply to his will, though sometimes he was good enough to avoid the devastating blows it tried to dole out.

Other times he was just lucky.

Okay, maybe he was more lucky than good, because watching Sam fight for his life because of some bacteria certainly was a harsh way for the universe to assert its dominance over him.

But he was at its will. He would have pleaded for help if he thought anyone would listen.

He did it anyway.

No one seemed to listen. Especially not Sam.

Next to Sam's bed, he did not move from his post. He seemed as static as the machines that kept Sam alive and knew that this was his charge above all else.

"You can't go down like this," he said. "A bad burger is no way to die." His voice was scratchy and weak--he'd been here too long, and he was just so tired. Suddenly, he gave an irrational laugh.

Because it was crap, and Dean knew it. He knew it in every fiber of his being. It didn't matter if it was bad meat, a poltergeist, a demon, The Demon, natural causes or Dean's hand--death was still death, and Dean wouldn't stand for any of it.

"You can't die, Sammy," he tried again, pulling Sam's hand into his own. "Not now, not ever. Not while I'm around, okay?"

He knew Sam would never agree to a deal like that, would never acquiesce to Dean dying first, but this was his bedside vigil, and he would barter just about anything he had, anything he may ever have, to keep Sam safe here and now. That included his own life, his own soul, his own everything.

Sam had been right. Dead was dead. Just like Mom, Jess, and Dad. Dean had lost everyone else. He couldn't lose Sam.

OOO

In the end, Dean wasn't sure who to thank when Sam turned the corner for the better. He wanted to take credit, and he certainly thanked the doctor, but he knew it was by something else's grace that things had worked out for the best.

The dialysis was stopped and the medications were weaned and Sam would wake up soon.

Dean hadn't left much to begin with, and he certainly wasn't going to leave now, no matter what logic the staff tried to use on him.

He was there, then, when Sam first started waking. It was a slow process, taking Sam through levels of consciousness while Dean coaxed him from his bedside.

Dean wasn't sure how, but the doctor had caught wind of it, and before Sam could fully wake, she was positioned by Sam's side, obscuring Sam from Dean's view.

Sam struggled, seemed to panic, and the doctor was hovering over him in an instant, which just raised Sam's anxiety more.

"Sam, you need to relax," she said. "We don't want to sedate you."

But Sam didn't listen, or couldn't listen, and Dean could see a sheen of tears in Sam's eyes as he fought against the tube.

The monitor was still wailing, Sam was still struggling in vain, and the doctor was swearing under her breath. And Dean had enough.

Deftly, he wove his way to Sam's bedside, letting his hand rest on his brother's head. "Just take it easy, Sammy," he said. "Take it easy."

Sam's eyes snapped to him, begging and pleading.

"I know," Dean told him. "But you've got to calm down and then the doc will deal with the tube, okay?"

Sam looked like he wanted to protest and a single tear of brokenness slipped from his eye.

And Dean's heart broke and he flushed red in embarrassment on Sam's behalf. "You've been sick," he explained. "You've been sick. But you're going to be okay, now. I can promise you that."

OOO

Dr. Pottebaum had asked him to leave as they extubated Sam and in order to perform a brief examination. Dean hadn't wanted to go, and the look on Sam's face made it pretty clear that he didn't want his brother to go either, but Dean knew that while Sam was clingy now, just waking up, that in a few days his brother would feel the weight of embarrassment at being so helpless and exposed.

So Dean left, lingering just outside the door. He saw other patients in their rooms, nurses coming and going, and remembered waking up in a hospital not so different than this one.

That time, he'd lost so much.

This time, he'd make sure he didn't.

OOO

Sam was propped up against a few pillows, the bed angled up. His eyes were closed and his head was turned toward the window. The machines were turned to silent and the room was unusually quiet.

Quietly, Dean edged around the curtain, sinking quietly in the familiar chair by Sam's bedside.

The small rustling made Sam stirred, and he meagerly turned his head toward his brother. He blinked a few times before a grin lazily crossed his face. "Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself," Dean countered. "You feeling okay?"

"Never better," Sam rasped, his voice sounding like sandpaper.

"I can bet. That tube probably did a number on your throat. Can't imagine the other tubes feel much better."

Sam nodded in agreement."Did you finish the job?"

Dean blanked. _The job?_

"Ronald Brammer. Lake Evans," Sam continued.

Dean literally laughed. He'd almost forgotten why they were in Wisconsin to begin with. "Are you kidding?"

Sam looked hurt, his puppy dog eyes shining up at Dean, then the hurt hardened slightly to offense. "People may be at risk. We have to finish it."

"We don't have to do anything, Sammy, except get you better."

"I'm fine," Sam said dismissively.

"Fine? Are you kidding me?" Dean asked, eyes wide, his voice colored with disbelief.

"I don't want to be responsible for the deaths of others," Sam insisted.

"Yeah, well, I could live with anyone else's death Sam, but not yours."

"Dean, we have a responsibility--"

"Trust me, Sam, I understand my responsibility," Dean said, leaning back in his seat.

"Then why is the job still not finished?" Sam pressed, his frustration spiking.

Dean's patience broke. "Because my first responsibility is you!"

Sam gaped, looking at his brother in shock. "But people have died, Dean."

"Yeah, and you were almost one of them."

"The doctor told me it was e coli. That's nothing supernatural."

"It doesn't matter," Dean said. "Like you said, dead is dead, Sam. And if I have to choose between you and someone else, I'm going to pick you every time."

"Dean...," Sam's voice was quiet and pleading. He drooped back against the bed, looking suddenly tired. "It's our job."

"A job is a job, Sammy," he whispered back, leaning forward, putting his hand on the bedrail. "But you're family. That's where the real glory of all this is. You and me."

Sam held his gaze, his eyes tortured. "Someday, Dean--"

"The day will never come," Dean promised.

The gaze passed a moment more between them before Sam tore it away, looking toward the window with a strangled laugh. "You turned into a girl while I was out."

"Better than being taken down by a burger," Dean joked, leaning back in his chair. "A burger, Sammy. Doesn't exactly invoke fear and trembling into the supernatural realm now, does it?"

Sam smiled slightly, letting the joke fall easily between them. "Thank you," Sam said finally. "For being here. But you need to finish it, Dean."

Dean suppressed his sigh. "Sam--"

"I'm okay now. You need to finish it."

"Sam--"

"Please, Dean," Sam said.

Dean felt himself crumbling, succumbing to the puppy dog look on Sam's face, the desperation, the overwhelming need in Sam's voice. Why couldn't Sam just let it go, let the hunt be second just for awhile longer?

It was a question Dean already knew the answer to. A question that traced back to the Demon that started this and the fate that Sam was increasingly desperate to fight.

"I can't be responsible for anyone's death. Not ever again."

OOO

Graveyards were empty more often than not, because people didn't want to remember the dead. They said they did, sometimes came to decorate the graves, but the dead were nothing more than memories in the best of times, ghosts in the worst, and at some point, life just had to go on.

Most people hated graveyards, but they had never bothered Dean. He had dug up too many graves, desecrated too many remains, seen the dark side of death too often to really worry too much about those that rested peacefully beneath his feet. Because the dead were forgotten, loved only in fading memories where danger is not a threat.

He would have preferred Sam to be with him, but the doctors wanted to keep him a little longer--they were still watching his left kidney, and Dean wasn't about to take a chance with Sam's life.

As he approached the grave, shovel in hand, lighter fluid in the other, he suddenly felt a chill, and his chest tightened in anticipation.

To prevent his father from becoming a ghost wasn't the only reason they'd burned his bones. His reluctance to visit his mother's grave wasn't because he had no need of it.

No, it had all been because it hurt too much. Death was too permanent, too final, too unknown. It was the one thing he couldn't fight, the thing he couldn't change.

Ronald Brammer's grave was simple and alone, in a row of similarly simple and lonely headstones. As he tore up the sod and shoveled the dirt and mud away, Dean couldn't help but wonder if anyone thought of Ronald Brammer now.

It didn't matter what he did in life, who he was, or how he died. Ronald Brammer was dead and forgotten, nothing but a story in the mouth of a crazy old woman.

Breaking open the box, he saw the skeleton, and felt a sudden urge to cry.

For Ronald Brammer, for all the people buried around him, for his mother, for his father, for the brother he had almost lost. Because life was precious, and Dean didn't care if it sounded cliched, it was everything. As long as he was breathing, he always had the chance to make something better.

As long as Sam was breathing, there was a chance to save Sam from all the darkness closing in on him.

And Dean would fight forever for that. No matter what.

Pulling himself out of the grave, Dean salted the bones and then poured on the gas. He struck the match, threw it down, and watched as the flames licked the dirt.

He stayed until the flames died down, until he reburied the opened grave, and returned Ronald Brammer to the dirt and ash. Then he left, alone in the rows of headstones, and returned to his brother and his life.

OOO

"It's done," Dean said. "No one else died. We got to it in time."

The relief that spread across Sam's face was utter and complete. He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. "Thank you."

"Yeah, well, you owe me," Dean snipped, plopping down in the chair.

Opening his eyes, Sam glared at Dean. "I owe you? Are you kidding me? The doctor told me about the e coli outbreak in Wimbly. The burger I ate the night I asked you for a soup or salad."

"So you blame me for that?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm just saying."

With mock annoyance, Dean glowered. "Next time I'll let you suffer on the bathroom floor, okay?"

"That's very nice, Dean, thanks."

"Exactly," Dean said decidedly. "What more do you want?"

"Well, maybe next time I ask for a salad, get me a salad." There is a sparkle in his eyes, and smile quirks his lips.

Dean just snorted a laugh. "They say it can be found in vegetables too. Usually from the water its washed with."

"At least I won't die of a heart attack."

"I'm not letting you die at all," Dean countered, his voice light, but his intent serious. Sam didn't know yet, couldn't know yet, but Dean could feel it tugging on both of them.

Sam's face darkened, the sparkle faded, and his eyes narrowing in fear. "You know you can't control that."

"Watch me," Dean promised, defiance ringing in his voice. "Just watch me."

fin


End file.
